Page 63 of Fat Arranged Mate
"Mr. Mitchell, come with me. Bring your family. I can help—"
"Go!" he hisses, already retreating toward the house. "They check on us. They watch the ones who hesitate."
I melt back into the trees as truck doors slam in the driveway. The last thing I see is Mitchell's face in the kitchen window—a man trapped between monsters of his own making and the real monsters he fears they've become.
Then, with no other option, I turn and run headlong into the woods.
Chapter 22 - Dylan
The forest breathes around us—six men moving like ghosts between ancient pines, rifles balanced in gloved hands. Moonlight filters through branches, casting knife-edge shadows across the forest floor. I keep my breathing shallow, my steps precise, every sense hyper-alert despite the dull throb of whiskey in my veins.
Standard Guardian procedure: liquid courage before the hunt. I'd poured most of mine onto the ground when no one was looking.
"Movement ahead," Mike whispers, dropping to one knee. "Hundred yards, two o'clock."
I follow his gesture, narrowing my eyes. Nothing visible, but—there. A scent carried on the shifting breeze.
Not just wolf, butshifter. Unmistakable to someone like me, though imperceptible to human hunters.
And they're heading straight toward Silvercreek. Leading the hunters with them.
It’s probably a member of the pack’s security detail.Shit. Shit. Shit.
Donovan signals, hand slicing through the air. "Split up. Mike, take Dylan and circle east. Rest of us push forward. Drive it toward the creek bed."
My pulse quickens. East puts me closer to the shifter's path, might give me a chance to intercept before the others close in.
"Copy that," Mike nods, gesturing me forward.
We move in practiced silence, Mike leading, me following just far enough back to maintain sight lines. The forest thickens as we push east, undergrowth tearing at pant legs, branches scraping against rifle barrels. Mike's focus stays forward, hunter's instinct driving him toward prey.
My focus splits—playing the role while plotting interference. One hundred yards. Two hundred. The distance between us and the main group grows.
I catch the shifter's scent again, stronger now. Young. Male. Frightened.
Opportunity presents itself when Mike pauses to check coordinates on his GPS. I deliberately knock against a fallen branch, the crack of wood echoing like a gunshot through silent trees.
"What the hell?" Mike hisses, whipping around.
"Sorry," I whisper, feigning embarrassment. "Didn't see it."
His expression tightens with irritation. "You just alerted everything within a half-mile."
"I'll make it up to you," I offer. "Scout ahead, see if I can pick up the trail again."
He hesitates, then nods. "Stay in radio contact."
I move forward alone, pace quickening once out of sight. The shifter's scent pulls me northwest, toward a rocky outcropping that marks the unofficial boundary of Silvercreek territory. If I can reach him first, warn him back—
A flash of movement ahead freezes me mid-step. I drop into a crouch, rifle raised for appearance's sake, though my finger stays carefully outside the trigger guard.
The shifter emerges from behind a massive oak—in wolf form, he’s unmistakable. It’s Connor, likely on his way back from a patrol. The sight of him both eases something in my chest and ramps up my anxiety tenfold.
We stare at each other across the clearing for a moment, two deer in headlights.
I raise one finger to my lips, then deliberately set my rifle down.
Confusion replaces fear in his eyes. Then, recognition.
